


I'll go down with my friends (f*cking friends)

by ashers_kiss



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:58:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank and Mikey's friendship, through Gerard's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll go down with my friends (f*cking friends)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlmarauders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlmarauders/gifts).



> Massive, massive thanks to P. for absolutely everything. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Apologies to my recipient - I wanted to write this long, involved story that did these two and their relationship justice, and was probably much more like what you had in mind. Then RL got in the way by being busy, and time just slipped away from me. So this is more a condensed version of that story. Sorry. /o\

Gerard was never really sure when Frank first appeared in Mikey’s life.  He was just – _there_.  A band (an audition, and Gerard would have been more pissed if it hadn’t been for the tiniest smile lurking around Mikey’s mouth when he said, “I sucked”), a party Gerard was only at because Mikey dragged him there, gig after gig after show after dirty basement screaming sets that were mostly beer-hazy whenever Gerard tried to think back on them.  Frank was always around, appearing out of nowhere to hang off Mikey’s neck, always sounding like he was surprised to see him there, smacking wet kisses on to his cheek the later it got and declaring, “I fuckin’ love this guy – no, shut up, shut _up_ Hambone, y’don’t get it, I fucking _love_ him.”

Mikey never pushed him away.  It wasn’t like with Gabe (and Gerard had enough big brother thoughts about that to last him a fucking lifetime), he didn’t lean into it, didn’t do more than steal Frank’s beer or joint or lift his eyebrows, but…it was natural, and Gerard would’ve sworn he didn’t do more than blink before it was weird _not_ to see Frank hanging off his brother.

Then there were the Towers, and the images Gerard never seemed to be able to get out of his mind, and the idea, the band, like it was the most natural progression in the fucking world.  And Mikey, with his unwavering belief in them, in _Gerard_ (still shook Gerard to the core, when he thought about it too much, the amount of faith Mikey had in him).  When they needed a practice space, a studio, a fucking spare amp because Matt tripped over the only one that seemed to work right, they’d barely got the words out before Mikey was heading for the phone, saying, “I’ll ask Frank.”

And Frank always came through.

Their first show, fuck, Gerard was a mess, hands shaking no matter how much beer he downed.  His throat felt like broken glass, no way he was going to be able to sing.  Ray looked pale and sweaty, kept muttering to himself, and if Matt cracked his knuckles one more time Gerard was going to fucking deck him.  Mikey…Mikey was pale, Mikey was always pale these days, Gerard didn’t think he was sleeping much, but then neither was he.  But Mikey’s eyes were big, too big, and his own hands shook every time he took a shot.

But then they were onstage, and Gerard had barely a second to think, _No_ , before the lights were on them and something settled, over his shoulders and deep in his gut.  He could just about make out Frank’s stupid dreads all the way in the back, just above everyone else, and he watched Mikey’s own shoulders ease as he saw him too, the death grip he had on the neck of his bass loosening ever so slightly.

Afterwards, when they tumbled offstage and emptiness crawled in to take the place of the adrenaline, the…Gerard didn’t know, the sense of _right_ , of _fuck yes_ , Frank was there, too.  He threw an arm around Mikey’s neck and _wouldn’t stop shouting_ , the other arm in the air, voice kind of hoarse as he told them, “You fucking _killed it_ , I told you,” punching Mikey on the arm.

“We did, huh?”  Ray sounded pretty stunned, and Gerard didn’t really blame him.  He couldn’t make his voice work, gulping at the drink someone handed him.

It didn’t matter though.  Mikey said it for all of them, said, “We did,” firm, like it was a fact, smiling, _beaming_ , even if he was still shaking.  Frank’s own grin grew, and he started tugging Mikey towards the bar.  “We need to celebrate,” he declared.  “My Chemical Romance, they’re gonna take over the _world_ , motherfuckers.”  And yeah, Gerard could get on board with that plan.

*

Recording was – a dream, and a fucking nightmare.  A whirlwind that Gerard could barely keep straight in his head; he thought he saw the same panic in the whites of Ray’s eyes, sometimes.  And his fucking _tooth_ , Jesus Christ he wanted to die.  Rip it out and fucking _die_.  (At least Geoff seemed to like what it did for his vocals.  Gerard had almost thrown his fucking headphones at him.)  Mikey brought him coffee and painkillers – and sometimes, when Ray wasn’t looking, vodka, because he loved Gerard, and vodka was the best painkiller of all, Ray didn’t know what he was talking about with his “no mixing booze and pills” speech – but it wasn’t enough, and Gerard spent most of the time he wasn’t on the mic curled up in a corner somewhere clutching his jaw.

Then there was the guitar issue.  Ray could deny it all he fucking wanted – and he _did_ – but even Gerard knew they needed another guitarist.  Ray was amazing, Ray was a _god_ , but he couldn’t do everything, not quite, and this.  This needed to be _right_.

The only one of them not stressing out was Frank, and that was because he spent most of the time he was there sprawled on the couch, high as a fucking kite.  He’d been doing that a lot since Pencey split.

Really, Gerard should’ve been pissed it took them so long to figure it out.

Mikey sat on the arm of the couch and poked Frank in the side.  “Hey.  Frankie.”  Gerard didn’t even know if Frank was awake, but he swiped at Mikey and managed to roll on to his stomach okay.  Mikey didn’t move, just waited till Frank had settled again and poked at his back.  “Frank.  Get up.”

“Told you it’d be good practice one day,” Gerard mumbled, and oh fuck, but that hurt.  His cheek felt twice its normal size.  But he was still pretty sure he’d never taken this long to wake up.

Mikey didn’t even look at him.  “Shut up, Gee.”  He pulled on one of Frank’s dreads, saying, “I’m going to let Matt drink all your beer if you don’t get up.”

Frank’s mouth screwed up, and he shoved his face into one of the cushions that smelled of smoke and sweat and beer.  Gerard was very well acquainted with those cushions.  “Fuckin’ hate you, Way.”

“Uh huh.  Get up.”

“’M’up.”

“Bullshit.  Get up.”

Frank groaned, long and plaintive, before he shoved himself up on his arms until he could sit up.  “ _Hate_ ,” he reminded them, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his palm.  He looked all of five, even with the stupid dreads.  Gerard thought he might actually have been pouting.

Mikey tugged on another dread.  “You wanna play with us, Frankie?”  He was doing that thing again, the one that made Gerard’s stomach flip, because he was pretty sure he was responsible for it, where his voice was steady and his mouth went tight.  Please say yes, Gerard thought, and it was only a little for the band.

Frank snorted.  “Yeah, right.”

“We need another guitarist,” Gerard burst out, even when it made him wince.  Frank dropped his hand and stared at him, like he hadn’t realised he was there, and Mikey glared at him from the corner of his eye.  “Toro’s really fucking – he’s Ray, but we need.  We need to balance it, we need a different sound in there.”  He swallowed, stopped himself from saying, “we need you,” because yeah, way to come off as desperate, Gerard.

Mikey was in the middle of rolling his eyes when Frank looked back at him.  “Basically.”

“Seriously?” Frank breathed.

Gerard said, “Only if you want to – ” while Mikey nodded, and then Frank was saying, “Yes, yes, I – fuck, _yes_ ,” and had his arms around Mikey, pulling him down.  He sounded like he was laughing.  Mikey smiled, only the tiniest bit smug, as he mouthed, “Told you.”  Gerard would’ve stuck his tongue out if he could have moved his fucking jaw.

*

The first time Frank kissed him – it wasn’t really a kiss.  It was a bunch of guys shouting what were supposed to be insults, slurs and hate-speech and before Gerard could even take a breath to tell them _exactly_ how to fuck off, they were _wrong_ , Frank’s hand was in his hair and his lips mashed against his.  Gerard’s brain kind of got stuck on, holy shit, holy _shit_ , and then Frank’s tongue was in his mouth, and okay, fine, _fuck_ them, Gerard wrapped a hand around the back of Frank’s neck and tilted his head, gave as good as he fucking got until the crowd’s silence gave way to a wave of noise.  Frank eventually pulled away, spat off the tiny tiny stage (and in the general direction of the fuckers), and Gerard grinned at the crowd.  It was a good fucking show.

Except when they got off the stage, Mikey walked past them without a single word.  “Shit,” Frank cursed, and hurried off after him.

Gerard never did find out what the hell that was about, but the next time someone shouted shit, he was the one reaching for Frank.

*

The next few years – shit, the next few years were a blur.  There was touring and writing and partying and Frank and Mikey moving in together (and that one time, after the interview, Frank pulling him aside to ask him if the thing with the shower really happened, gnawing at his lip ring like it was something _serious_ , something he had to worry about), and studio time, a second fucking album, and the more and more appealing way the booze and the pills made his head calm, even if everything around him was spinning.  There were the days Frank was late to the studio, and Mikey’s, “He thinks he’s caught something, he’ll be here soon,” nose buried in his phone; there was the way Frank would curl up with his hood pulled up when they didn’t need him in the booth, when he finally made it in, and Mikey sitting next to him, like a fucking shadow, and the dark little something gnawing at Gerard’s stomach.

There was Warped for the _second time_ , which was – insane.  There was more pills, more alcohol, and even stronger stuff; there was Matt and Ray screaming at each other, there was Bert, there was the days that spun and the sets that never seemed to really happen and the nights that only ended when Mikey and Frank and sometimes Brian or Bob – Bob was awesome, Gerard loved Bob, he could stay as far as Gerard was concerned, except then he’d have to steal him from The Used, and that probably wasn’t cool – heaved him into his bunk.

There was Japan, and all the fucking misery that came along with it, the nights that never fucking ended and the days that were too bright.  There was Matt and then Bob and everything going to shit _there_ and Frank ready to launch himself at anyone who even looked at any of them funny.  There was Helena, and God, Gerard thought he was never going to get through that.  He remembered Mikey moving back home for a while then, and Frank coming with him.

There was Pete Wentz and Mikey looking better than Gerard had ever seen him, in some ways, and too tight and strained in others.  There was holding Frank back when he promised to rip Wentz limb from limb if he ever hurt him, and Wentz’s wide eyes.  The day Fall Out Boy left Warped, Mikey came back to the bus and went straight to his bunk.  He wouldn’t even let Gerard inside.  Frank came back that night with a bloody lip Gerard helped him clean up before Mikey saw it.

Then there was Paramour, and Gerard was never, ever going to forgive himself for that.  He watched Mikey lose his mind, and couldn’t do a fucking thing about it.  He watched Frank flounder, practically lost, like the sense of uselessness in his eyes floated behind him like a bad shadow.  He watched his band, his family, fall apart, and thought, enough.

When they left, Mikey met them at the airport, hair slicked back and glasses gone, Alicia next to him, and for the first time Gerard could remember in _years_ , he looked comfortable in his own skin.  Frank stopped in his tracks, throat working.  “Wow.”

Mikey rolled his eyes and pulled him in for a hug.  “Shut up, Frank.”  Frank didn’t say anything, just wrapped his arms around him and held on, eyes squeezed tight.  And Gerard, bones aching and head thumping, had to fucking smile.  Then Mikey said, “Don’t think I don’t see that hair, Gee.  What the fuck did you let him do, Frank?”  Frank squawked, shoved himself away and bitched about how Mikey was one to talk, and Gerard finally got his hug.


End file.
